William H. Gass

One thing is certain: a cool flute blue tastes like deep well water drunk from a cup...

That space in paper sacks which are too small to be re-used is blue. Sucking stones, too.  Even if the sacks themselves are often tan and sandy, the stones are ovals of grey – blue granite.  Molloy’s sentences of calculation, so calm, so formed, so desperate, are blue to the pale core they contain, and at the bottom of the paper bags, as if waterlogged, there is always a little slip with the price of purchase.  The pockets of the great coat and the pockets of the trousers, the tireless fist which is at itch to trade one for another, are blue like the empty sacks they resemble.  The loneliness of clothes draped over the backs of chairs is blue, undies, empty lobbies, rumpled spreads are blue, especially when chenille and if orange; not body warmth or body smell or the acidulous salts of the vagina – no – blue belongs to the past – to the minutes after masturbation, to thought, to detachment and removal, fading, to the inside side of sex and the self that in the midst of pitch and toss has slipped away like a lucky penny fallen from a dresser.